


Six Things That Never Happened

by TrulyCertain



Series: An Unquenchable Flame [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, An Unquenchable Flame 'verse, F/M, somewhat angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3684093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the events of Inquisition didn't happen, or happened differently? Six AUs to accompany <i>An Unquenchable Flame.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Things That Never Happened

##    
i.

He stays. Of course he does. Kirkwall needs him. The order needs him, even if he’s increasingly been questioning his place in it of late. He is a templar, and he must show the city’s people what a good templar is (even if he has not been one for a very long time). He must prove to them he is not Meredith, and that her mistakes won’t be allowed to happen again.

Those plans are disrupted by the war.

The newer lyrium shipments taste... odd. He didn’t notice it at first, too distracted and too busy, but there is an undertone of  _difference,_ and the aftertaste isn’t quite right. He can’t put his finger on it. (The song, he admits in the privacy of his own head, sounds different.)

Still, it has been vetted by the Chantry, and there’s little time to dwell upon such things. He ignores the grinding of his teeth, the persistent itch under his skin.

If he thinks that his temper is more frayed, and if he increases his dose for the first time in ten years, he blames it on the toll of war. When he wakes up from dreamless sleep desperately scratching at his skin, he blames it on Kinloch and the Blight.

The night he breaks the skin and sees blood - the red under the blood - he closes his eyes and tells himself it’s just his imagination.

 

## ii.

A mage survived the Conclave and walked out of a rift.

Yvaine Trevelyan was not lucky enough to accomplish such a feat - or to survive.

 

## iii.

She lets out a low whistle as they follow the Grand Enchanter through the fortress’ gates. “Quite the place they have here.”

Kari nods, looking around nervously, smoothing down her robes and shivering in the cold mountain air.

 _Skyhold._ Even the name sounds like something from a ridiculous epic. The place dwarfs them, throwing everyone in the courtyard into shadow. It’s beautiful. It’s  _terrifying._ They were told the Inquisition would offer them sanctuary, but this looks like they’re preparing to shield people from an all-out war.

“Yvaine?” Kari asks.

She has to look down a fair bit to answer. She’s a tall woman, and Kari is... well... an average elf. Rather impressive in a fight, though: she’s the main reason they made it out of that mess at Ostwick. “Kari?”

“I heard they were going to let us train with the troops. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Yvaine raises an eyebrow. “You never know, it might encourage unity and cooperation.” It comes out flat and utterly devoid of hope.

Kari is right. Grand Enchanter Fiona disappears to speak with the Inquisitor, and they’re left standing with the troops in the courtyard. They’re all turned towards the door of the barracks, as if they’re waiting for someone to emerge. Yvaine tries her best to ignore the glares and distrustful whispers, watching the door herself and attempting to pretend that she knows what in the Fade is going on.

The first thing she sees is fur. A  _lot_  of fur. She half-wonders if some sort of bear has come out of the barracks, then she sees that there’s a man somewhere under all that.

Tall, she registers. Blond. Sharp-jawed, dark-eyed. Expression that could either be commanding or constipated depending on your point of view.

Someone refers to him as  _commander,_ and then she knows. Oh. Yes. Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition. Once a Kirkwall templar, if the rumours are to be believed. He looks them over, his brow furrowed. She can’t help but think that the idea of them training with the troops is rather naively optimistic. She wonders if she’s the only one, but then she sees something in his eyes other than calculation: worry. He hides it very well, but it’s there. It’s not  _fear -_ not of the mages: his eyes are most often on his men, watching their reaction.

He says that the Inquisition has put its trust in the “rebel mages” - she’s never been fond of that name; it makes them sound like they’re all maleficarum, or like the mages who head out to provoke templars and don’t care about the innocents caught in the crossfire - and that they are being given protection. He says that he wants “their full cooperation in this matter”.

Yvaine knows what that means.  _We’re watching you. Don’t fuck it up._

His eyes meet hers briefly as they scan over the group of mages. She keeps her chin up, her eyes steady. It looks petulant, perhaps, but it also looks honest, and that’s the most important thing. She sees the minute pause before he looks away - the way his frown tightens just slightly, the note of assessment in his expression - then it’s gone, and he’s watching the crowd again.

Hmm. Curious.

Kari watches him walk away with no small amount of interest, and Yvaine follows her gaze. “Really?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

Kari flushes. “It is, um, it is quite nice.” 

Yvaine just says, “I’m suprised you can admire his arse with that stick stuck up it. Oh, and the cloak.”

She takes her time exploring Skyhold. When she isn’t training, she ends up in the library more often than not - some Circle habits die hard - which is how she meets Dorian. They bond over the filthy looks and the whispers they get from some parts of the keep, as well as a mutual love of Genitivi’s work and a general bemusement with Orlesians. Apparently, he was instrumental in sorting out the fiasco at Redcliffe. She asks him about the Imperium, about how mages are treated there, and he answers honestly. He asks her about life in the Circle, about Southern templars. He pretends to laugh a lot of the Chantry system off as simply quirky, but she doesn’t miss the anger and disgust in his eyes when she, too, answers honestly. She used to be the same once, but that spark went out long ago. She’s been in the Circle since she was twelve - she knows how things are by now. Fiona said she was offering them freedom, and instead she sold them down the river to the Imperium. The system’s a cage: throwing yourself against the bars just leaves you angry and in too much pain to do anything useful.

She’s sitting on what Dorian calls his “footstool” - it’s actually just a plain stool which Flissa let him abduct from the tavern - and is halfway through  _Adventures of the Black Fox_  when she hears footsteps approaching. They’re heavy: their owner is armoured and most likely big. 

“Ah,” Dorian says, “commander.”

“I - oh,” the aforementioned commander replies. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

“Oh, don’t mind her,” Dorian says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “She’s just warming my footstool.” When Yvaine gives him a mock-offended glare, he only grins blithely at her.

“Well, it is a good stool,” Yvaine chips in. “I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

The commander gives her that look again, as if she’s something unexpected, but it’s fleeting, gone almost before she notices it. Then much to her surprise, he says, “I quite agree. It’s a favourite of mine as well.” He gives her a lopsided half-grin - she wonders if it’s like that because of the scar on his mouth. The expression is a quiet, understated thing that’s frankly rather at odds with the furs, the brightly gleaming armour, the sword of mercy on his bracers. 

It makes her cock her head and look at him again, reassessing. His eyes meet hers, and she knows he’s caught her. She returns to her book.

“I hear you’ve been roping this delightful woman into training with the rabble.” It sounds arrogant, but she knows Dorian doesn’t mean it that way.

“It’s standard practice with all the mages,” Rutherford replies. When Yvaine looks up, she sees that he’s leaning against a bookcase, his arms crossed. Again, very different from the tense, professional man she sees in the training yard. “Our forces need to be familiar with each other. Trust is essential.” The words are staid, as though he’s said them too many times, but he seems to believe them: there’s a smile hovering round his mouth, and he seems pleased with the thought.

“It’s been good to speak with the soldiers, actually,” Yvaine says. Because she can’t resist, she sighs and adds wistfully, “I’ve yet to handle any big swords, though. I can hope, I suppose.” It’s not the sort of thing she’d do in training, when there’s work to be done, but here is a different matter.

 The commander’s ears go a fascinating - and startling - shade of pink. “Yes, well... few mages have shown interest in weapons training.” It’s quieter than usual, a little awkward, but far from an angry reprimand. He barely stumbles. She’s quite impressed.

She smiles at him, and it’s genuine. “Understandable, I suppose.”

He looks to Dorian, who’s barely restraining a smirk, and asks, “I don’t suppose you still have  _Adventures of the Bla - “_  When Dorian cheerfully gestures to Yvaine, the commander looks at her in surprise. Opens his mouth. Shuts it again. “I see.”

The book was tucked out of harm’s way by the stool when she came here. That was partly why she picked it up. She can’t help her surprise - adventure stories about a daring thief? She wouldn’t have assumed it would be to the steadfast, staid commander’s taste. Then she has the abrupt realization that she’s probably managed to steal the man’s favourite seat  _and_ the book he was reading. Even for her, this is unfortunate. 

He doesn’t seem particularly displeased, however. Instead, she sees that fleeting, assessing curiosity in his eyes again before he tamps down on it.

She offers him the book. “Sorry. Here. I was only doing a reread anyway.”

His reply is soft, his eyes on the volume. “So was I.” He seems to realize that he’s spoken, and says more firmly, “Keep it.” When she opens her mouth to protest, he continues, “I’m sure you have more need of it anyway.” He offers her a smile. 

It isn’t that she hasn’t seen him do it before, but they’ve been rare, wan things, more grim smirks than actual attempts at kindness, and they’ve never been directed at her. This one? It’s different. For a moment, he’s more than the intimidating wall of fur, steel and duty she’s used to seeing: he’s a reserved, slightly awkward man who reads ridiculous adventure stories in his spare time and seems to get on surprisingly well with Dorian. She’s always wondered why he's so popular with the troops, other than his firmness and his competence - perhaps, she realizes, they genuinely  _like_ him. Perhaps she could too. 

The moment passes. He looks past her. “Ah.” He walks up to a shelf, selects a book and waves it at Dorian. “Was this the one you were speaking of?”

Dorian leans forwards, frowning at it, then relaxes with a satisfied smile. “Yes. Excellent choice, if I may say so. Whoever recommended it has fine taste.”

Rutherford raises an eyebrow and says, so dryly that Yvaine has to stifle a laugh, “If you insist.” He nods at them. “Dorian. Trevelyan.” Then he turns on his heel and walks out of the library.

She finds herself watching him go, her eyebrows raised in surprise. She wasn’t aware he even knew her name.

Dorian obviously guesses the source of her confusion - or at least, part of it. “Oh, he remembers far too many names,” he says. “He’s like a mother hen, that one.”

She dimly realizes that she’s still looking at the door to the library. “Odd,” she remarks. “For a moment there, he was almost... human.”

Dorian snorts at that, but when she turns her head, he’s watching her far too shrewdly for her peace of mind. She’s about to ask why, but he picks up his book again before she can, and she’s left frowning, oddly confused.

It’s probably insubordination to leave a copy of  _Adventures of the Black Fox_ on the general of the Inquisition army’s desk. Or unusual, at least. Certainly, the guard standing in his empty office gives her a quizzical look and asks, “Were you looking for the commander, or - ?”

She shakes her head, waves the question away. “Oh no.” He’s in the yards with the archers, as she well knows. “Just returning something.” 

 

## iv.

_Deja vu._

He hates to resort to Orlesian, but the phrase is apt. It’s happening all over again, and he’s terrified.

Senior Enchanter Trevelyan is an... odd woman, to say the least, and her sense of humour is utterly inappropriate. She is also statuesque, quite lovely, at least in his eyes, and genuinely funny, when she’s not simply making awkward quips to fill silences.

Perhaps odd is his type. Amell was hardly the most ordinary of women either.

It was something so small and so simple that began this mess. He’d been wounded tracking down a blood mage - the maleficar, striking out with a dagger in a moment of desperation, had left a gash from his elbow to his shoulder. It was bleeding profusely.

They had insisted on taking him to a healer, and Trevelyan was one of the best in the Ostwick Circle. Which was how he found himself in her office, hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

She was sitting with her nose buried in a book, but she said, without looking up, “Knight commander. What can I do for you?”

“I was sent here for healing,” he replied.

She stood, turned to him and nodded briskly. “I see. Where’s the afflicted area?”

“My arm.” He ran a hand over the wound to show her its extent, hissing through his teeth at the pain.

Her eyes followed his fingers, and then she gave him another nod. “That appears quite extensive. Sit on that cot there. Shirt off, please.” When he hesitated, she added, “Unless you’d like me to buy you dinner first?”

That was farfrom helpful - he felt a flush crawling up his cheeks - but it at least distracted him from the pain. He hurriedly pulled the garment over his head with a grunt.

Aside from the off-colour joke, her gaze was utterly clinical as she assessed it. She frowned, ducking her head at look at the wound. Her eyelashes were very long, he noticed suddenly, and for some reason that made him look away from her, his eyes on the wall. That observation felt... inappropriate, somehow.

“There’s poison in here,” she remarked lightly. “We’ll need to draw it out, and that win’t be pleasant. But first, ser - what exactly  _did_ happen in Kirkwall?”

He glared at her. He’d had plenty of people ask him, of course (often questions about whether the Champion really was twelve feet tall and breathed fire), but  _now?_ “Is this really the time? I’m sure you’ve heard the tale enough ti -  _Maker’s breath!”_

Her hand was on the wound, it was glowing, and a sharp, burning pain was coming from it - or coming from the wound, he couldn’t tell. It felt like having a hundred arrows pulled from his arm, or like being caught in a fire spell, or... Every nerve screamed, and he fought the urge to get up and defend himself, return the attack,  _something._

Then it was gone, and she was smiling at him, utterly untroubled. “Sorry. Distraction, extraction. I find it works rather well.”

“I...” He swayed slightly, half-dazed from the pain, and noticed woozily that she had a full, wide smile. A rather nice one, in fact. She seemed to have painted it with something, some kind of colour... “Ah. Purple,” he managed faintly, frowning and grasping desperately for words.

The corners of her eyes crinkled in her amusement. Yes, her eyelashes really were very long. “Yes.” Her voice was dry. “Nice of you to notice. Would you like to borrow some?”

“No! I mean...” He fumbled, finally beginning to recover his wits. “Thank you, senior enchanter.”

She nodded. “Accepted, but quite premature.” When he frowned at her, she explained, “This one’s a little more complicated than some. That was the hard part over with. Now, if you’ll give me a moment...”

Another glow, greener than the last. He gritted his teeth as he felt the flesh knitting. It was never entirely pleasant.

“There you are.”

She removed her hand, and he looked down at the wound. It was still there, but it looked older, and it was no longer bleeding. “I assume I can thank you now?” he asked, a trifle testily.

With a beneficent nod, she replied, “You may.”

“ _Thank you,_ senior enchanter, _”_ he said pointedly.

She was still smiling as he put his shirt back on and climbed off the cot. “Glad to be of service, knight commander. Come back to me in a week and I’ll make sure it isn’t infected. That’s an unusual one.”

He left the office, finding himself looking over his shoulder as he did so. She had already returned to her book, but she almost looked as if she was trying not to laugh. It was probably his imagination, he told himself.

Now he thinks that it probably wasn’t. She’s brisk, good-humoured in a way that’s almost confrontational. She reminds him a little of Senior Enchanter Wynne, except that she’s more...  _irreverent._ (He’s never spent too long being distracted by Wynne’s lips and the sound of her laugh, either.)

He came back a week later, as ordered. He found her sitting on the cot, evidently halfway through a book, a faint blush on her cheeks.

He cleared his throat.

She looked up and saw him. Her eyes widened, and she hastily ( _loudly),_ snapped the book shut, placing it on her desk and piling several pieces of parchment on top of it. She seated herself again, giving him an overly cheerful, rather panicked smile. “Ah. Knight-commander. Back so soon?”

She hadn’t been quite quick enough, however. He knew he shouldn’t ask, but something made him. “Was that... was that  _Swords & Shields?”_ 

 _“_ You must be mistaken.Where would one even find such filth in a Circle?” The fixed smile was still in place, and the sarcastic lilt to her tone told him that she’d already given up hope of lying.

By way of response, he simply raised his eyebrows, giving her the stony look that had made many a young recruit confess to their sins.

She didn’t even flinch, instead giving him a look that was almost as stern. (It was odd: it had been too long since he’d met someone who hadn’t looked at him with either deference or fear.) “I’ll have you know that it was only because I’d read  _The Tale of the Champion,_ and I wanted to know if there were any other books by the author.” She stood, turning round the chair next to her desk and gesturing to the cot. “Sit.” She added as a clear half-hearted afterthought, “Ser.”

For some reason, he did. She drew the chair closer, the legs scraping along the floor, and he winced at the sound.

She smirked at him. “My apologies, knight-commander. Evidently the furniture here has no respect for your station.”

He shook his head at her idea of wit. “That was awful.” In fact, he didn’t know why he was dignifying it with an answer.

“Indeed it was,” she replied briskly. “Now, shirt off.”

He lifted it over his head, and she leaned forwards, squinting at the wound. He was somehow unable to stop himself saying, “So you do know what happened in Kirkwall, then.” When she frowned at him, he explained, “ _The Tale of the Champion_ is fairly accurate. By Tethras’ usual standards, anyway.”

She looked back to the mostly-healed gash. “Oh. Yes. I was just asking you about it to distract you. And admittedly, because I was curious. Were you really the one who removed Meredith from command?”

He gave a short, entirely mirthless huff of laughter. “Tried to, more like. You know the story. It was Hawke who stopped her.”

“But you tried. I think that matters.” She pinched the skin next to the gash.

“ _Ouch!_ What was - ?”

“Checking how much provocation it would need to reopen.”

“Distracting me again?”

“No, actually,” she replied, running a hand along it. It was closing under her hands - completely now. She frowned intently as she worked. “So - Meredith?”

“Yes, I...  _attempted_ to relieve her of command. For all the good it did. It was foolish. I probably provoked her into using the sword.”

“Brave,” she said. 

It was quiet enough that, for a moment, he missed it. “I’m sorry?”

Now she looked at him, her face unusually serious. “I think you’ll find the word you’re looking for is  _brave.”_

Her eyes caught his, and he suddenly became aware of how very  _close_ they were. She was a healer, and so personal space was irrelevant, but something about it felt almost - almost -

“There,” she said. The moment shattered. She looked down at the wound.

“What?” He sounded like a fool.

“It’s done.” She let go of his arm. “It’s an impressive scar, but I’m sure it’ll look quite dashing. It’ll make an excellent dinner party anecdote, at least.”

When he checked it, all he saw was a pink, faded scar. He raised his arm to frown at it. Her skill must be quite remarkable. “Thank you, senior enchanter.” With a lifted eyebrow, he added, “If it’s not too early this time.”

“Well, well. The knight commander’s been hiding quite the smart mouth,” she replied. Then she sighed, looking at the ceiling. “ _Titles._ My mother called me Yvaine, as did your predecessor. If you truly want to thank me, would you mind doing the same?”

“I’m not sure that’s - “ He looked down at himself and came to a rather awkward realization. “In truth, you’ve already seen me half-naked. There are far better situations in which to maintain formality.” She laughed quietly at that, and he continued, “But if you’re Yvaine, then I insist that you call me Cullen. Anything else would be unfair.”

Surprise crossed her face, and then she laughed again. “Certainly,” she said, extending her hand. “Cullen.”

He shook it. “Yvaine,” he said, after barely a half-moment of hesitation.

She positively beamed at him.

He let go of her hand, replacing his shirt and standing. As he walked out of the room, she called to him, “Do try not to get on the wrong side of any more dagger-wielding maleficarum.”

“If I have to face such flagrant mockery every time they wound me...” he muttered, but it was amused rather than truly offended, and she knew it.

Her answering laugh followed him down the corridor.

In retrospect, he thinks that he should have known then. Perhaps he was in too much pain to notice the heat in his cheeks and the way his eyes lingered. Certainly, he should have noticed when he agreed to call her by her given name, something that was highly irregular.

He was a fool. He’s always been a fool.

He found that he was exchanging the odd smile and greeting with her in corridors, as if they were familiar - but then, in a way, they were.

There was a knock at the door of his office one day, about a fortnight later.

“Come in,” he called.

The door creaked open, and there she was. “Knight commander.” She approached the seat across from his desk. “May I - ?” At his nod, she sat down. “It’s about the stores.” When he just watched her questioningly, she explained, “We’re running low on blood lotus. Usually I’d leave it to the tranquil to sort this out - they’re far better at this sort of thing than me - but Elthie... You do know of Elthie?”

He knows that some ignore the tranquil, deem them so unimportant that they won’t even deign to speak to them. He knows that some people are wrong.

“Yes, I know of Elthie,” he replied. “She’s a fine researcher.”

She nodded. “Agreed. Look, in order to top up blood lotus stores, there’ll have to be some sort of herb-gathering excursion. Of course, you’d have to authorize such a thing. Elthie thought that a positive outcome was far more likely if I asked you about this. Apparently” - a sardonically raised brow - “we ‘have a rapport.’”

He hadn’t considered it. “I suppose we do,” he admitted, surprised. “But yes, I’ll authorize the expedition. I’ll need details about the location and the expected duration, but it’s a perfectly reasonable request.”

“Good.” She looked as though she was about to leave, then she hesitated. “Have you been writing?”

A strange question. “This is an office.”

“No, I mean you have ink...” She tapped her cheek.

He raised his hand to his face, attempting to mimic the motion. “Is it - ?”

“No. No, it’s...” She pointed to his face, which he of course couldn’t see. He tried again, and evidently failed, because she sighed. “No. Just, just allow me - “ 

Without any preamble, she leaned across the desk and brushed his cheek. He stared at her. She had probably just smeared the ink more, or done nothing at all to budge it, but he wasn’t paying attention to that. Instead he was preoccupied with how close she was. The way the brush of her hand became gentler, softer until she was cupping his cheek. The way her eyes flickered down to his mouth. How easy it would be to just close the distance between them and...

“Yvaine,” he breathed, unthinking.

Her eyes snapped back up to meet his, and she pulled away so fast that she nearly fell. “I - “ She was looking anywhere but him, and her cheeks were flushed. “I should... Knight commander.” He had never heard the address sound so terribly sad before. Then she turned, walking to the door and going through it, her steps far too fast to be casual.

And he knew. 

Anyone else would simply try and dismiss it. He knows that he should distract himself. He knows that he should try and ignore the way he’s waking from dreams of plum lips and his name. He is not anyone else, however. Such irresponsible desires have been used against him before, and he’s weak. Amell was the one-sided infatuation of an idiot boy. This is different. Suspecting, as he does, that it might be returned makes matters even worse. This is inappropriate and unethical. He’s older now, a high-ranking officer. He should be beyond this. 

He panics. He’s honest enough to admit that. He panics, and he begins the lengthy paperwork that will allow him to transfer somewhere else, anywhere else.

Of course, he’s just about to submit his application when the chaos of the  mage rebellion reaches Ostwick. He’d hoped to stave it off. So had his superiors: they hoped that he might be a stabilizing force after the way he’d restored some measure of peace in Kirkwall. Himself, he doubted that. He thought there was little more he could do for the templars. He wanted to leave the order, but he tried leaving Kirkwall instead, hoping that it would be enough.

It wasn’t, and now he’s here again: in the middle of a war, with order fractured and his history haunting him. He supposes he should have expected nothing else.

The mages ask for the Circle to be dissolved, and the templars allow fear to get the better of them. 

In the end, he is called from his office due to unrest. Shouts echo down the corridor.

There are calls amongst them to annul the mages. All at once he’s in Kirkwall again, standing in front of Meredith and pleading with her to see sense.

(He is not Meredith. He will not allow himself to be. He is better than that. Isn’t he?)

He’s forced to push through the crowd and stand between the templars and the mages. The templars’ swords are drawn, and the fact things have got that far is damning. The mages are calmer, some of them speaking vaguely of reasoning, but there are a few who are gripping their staves tightly. He can feel the Veil thinning, and the low-level magic in this room is making the hair on the back of his neck rise, his muscles tense.

He doesn’t draw his sword, not yet. He can’t run the risk of escalating the situation. “ _Stand down!”_ he orders. He is their commanding officer, and this is unnecessary. He shouldn’t even have to raise his voice.

“But, ser - “ one of them starts.

“Stand.  _Down_.” His voice is almost a growl, and he hates that - he hates the fact that he can feel control slipping through his fingers. He places his feet apart, planting himself in front of the mages, his grip firm on the pommel of his sword, and stares them down.

The one who spoke (Nivell, and she has always been promising; Cullen would never have thought she’d fall victim to the others’ fear-mongering) nods, bowing her head and sheathing her sword. Good.

“And the rest of you,” Cullen orders, meeting their eyes and daring them to challenge him. 

They still hesitate. 

He says, “These people are not maleficarum, or possessed. Our duty is to protect mages, not just to protect  _from_ them. Do this and you are no better than the people who started this war.”

There is the sound of several swords being sheathed. Not a word is said.

He turns to the mages, ready to give them similar orders, and then he hears it.

A footstep behind him, and another. The whisper of metal. A shout.

Ah. That’s regrettable.

He dodges the blow he knows is coming, turning as he does and drawing his blade. Piotr - for now he sees it’s Piotr - has frozen. Quite literally, in fact: there is ice around his feet, pinning them to the floor. It must have been magically summoned. Cullen is tempted to look at the mages and try and find its source, but he can’t let himself be distracted. It’s only bought him a second or two: Piotr is already breaking free.

Then Piotr is on him.

Piotr is young and perhaps faster. He’s also wet behind the ears. Cullen is larger, stronger, better-trained. Most importantly, he’s seen two Circles fall in his time and lived.

He knows from too long training Piotr that he never gets his guard low fast enough. Cullen takes advantage of that, ducking low and kneeing him in the groin. Piotr wheezes, bending double. A mistake. Cullen takes the opportunity to relieve the man of his sword, then goes for his kneecaps.

Piotr falls, and in barely a second Cullen puts a boot on his throat. He doesn’t apply pressure, but he thinks it makes his point well enough. 

Piotr stares at him, his eyes wide and his chest heaving, gasping for breath. There’s real fear in his face. 

“I have every right to kill you for what you just did,” he tells Piotr conversationally. (The boy Cullen was would be horrified to see him doing this, and aghast at how casual his voice is. That boy was naive, and was nearly broken because of it.) “The Chantry would agree.”

Piotr opens his mouth to speak, then appears to think better of it. Besides, it would put more pressure against the boot and choke him.

“Restrain him,” Cullen orders, keeping his eyes on Piotr. Desperate people do inadvisable things, and he knows what it is to raise his sword to a superior.

He looks up when he doesn’t hear movement. The templars are watching him, several of them nearly as wide-eyed as Piotr. So are the mages. 

After too long, two of the templars approach, their steps tentative. When they reach him, Cullen takes his boot off Piotr’s throat. They pull the boy up, holding him fast. “Thank you,” Cullen says, nodding to them.

Then he says, “There will be no more bloodshed. If this Circle is to be dissolved, it will be peacefully.”

Which is how they begin negotiations.

Three and a half hours later, the groups of mages are preparing to walk out of the Circle. Some already have, as have several templars: with the mages gone, they have no purpose. He asks the mages to include at least some templars in their group - he’s worried at the thought of there being no safeguards - but, of course, they refuse. He’s still unhappy, but the group are mostly senior, Harrowed mages, the most unlikely people to fall prey to demons. In truth, in some ways he’s more worried about the rogue templars than the horrors through the Veil.

He opens the doors, and then he leans against the wall, waiting for them to say their goodbyes and leave.

One group stays behind, and a mage breaks away from them. He wonders what she’s doing, until he realizes that she’s walking towards him. A moment later, he recognizes blonde hair and dark lips. He does his best to suppress his surprise, looking at the adjacent wall and pretending he hasn’t seen her.

“I was just wondering what your plans were.”

He jumps, looking at Yv - Senior Enchanter Trevelyan. “I...” He scratches at the back of his neck, unable to help the old nervous habit. “I hadn’t considered it in much detail. If I’m honest, I think the order and I should part ways.” He says with a bitter laugh, “It’s not as if I have anything left to command.”

She looks surprised. “You're leaving?”

“I’ve been... uncertain about my role here for a long time. I meant to leave after Kirkwall, but I thought this might be what I needed.”

“And it wasn’t?”

“No.” He watches the mages as they talk excitedly. “I don’t think it was. It just brought me the same problems as before.”

“I... have a proposition for you.” He looks at her in surprise and she continues, “I’ve seen enough bad templars to know a good one.” A hand on his arm. She doesn’t even seem to realize that it’s resting above the wound she healed. “What you said earlier.... We’d perhaps be willing to have a templar accompany us. A good one.” She looks into his eyes.

“What are you saying?”

She looks at him as though he’s an idiot. “What do you think I’m saying?” She sighs. “And if you’re leaving anyway, well, it might make sense.”

“But... me?”

“And Ser Elwen. And Ser Denn seems willing. They vouched for you, as did several of us. As I said, I know a good templar when I see one. And a good man.”

He thinks that that’s far from true. He watches her carefully, remembering the shout and the half-muttered incantation. “Was the ice spell yours?”

Her eyes skitter away from his, settling on the door before they return to him. “Are you willing to accompany us?”

He thinks on it for a moment, before having the bitter realization that he has nothing left to lose. “I will notify the order of my resignation.”

She cocks her head. “So does that mean that you’re no longer a templar?”

“It does.”

She nods, giving him the smile that has haunted him. “Thank you, Cullen.” She turns, heading back to the mages before he can reply.

He goes to pack his supplies.

It isn’t an easy life. It’s dangerous, exhausting, and then to make matters worse, the Breach opens. The only reason they survive is that some Inquisition troops offer them shelter and an escort. Even so, they only have one casualty, and during the journey, Senior Enchanter Trevelyan most definitely becomes  _Yvaine,_ a woman who runs out of lip-paint and curses impressively foully when she drops a grimoire on her foot _._  She calls him Cullen and discovers that he has nightmares far too often. That he thinks mushrooms are disgusting but will eat them without complaint, and that he misses his family.

Three months later, by some miracle, they make it to Skyhold. Yvaine cheers, and when she kisses him fiercely,  _finally,_ he pulls her close, the two of them laughing into each other’s mouths. He thanks all that’s holy for the Inquisition, for  _her,_ astonished that the Maker has allowed him this _._

 

## v.

If she hears the words “the Trevelyans’ eldest” one more time tonight, she thinks that she might set something on fire. She has a name, and she’s not a child. She’s managed to be reasonably charming - at least, she hopes she has - but between Emmeline trying unsubtly to set her up with men, her parents not seeming to know how to speak to her and the nobles either sneering at or backing away from “the apostate,” she admits that she’s regretting coming home. 

She should have tried her luck elsewhere after the Circle fell, but she thought that this was better than throwing her lot in with the rebel mages or sellswords, and less dangerous. That and she thought that she’d find...  _something_ here. She loves Emmeline, loves truly speaking to her again, but her parents haven’t see her in fifteen years. They have no idea who she is. They were confused and embarrassed by her tattoo, by the fact that she looks at the noblewomen as well as the noblemen: things that she’s rarely had to think about, so used to them being part of her. They tiptoe round her. They’re  _afraid_ of her, and it shouldn’t break her heart - she always knew they were afraid, she still remembers them crying, sending her off to the Circle - but it does.

She’s found Emmeline again, at least. That’s something.

They’re all so  _vacuous._ She knows she sounds ungrateful, that she’s far luckier than many. Yet all they seem to speak of is shoes and dresses and marriage - all things that she likes and finds interesting, but there is  _more._ They read philosophers, but only for appearances, so that they’ll have something to talk about at dinner parties. To see men and women so wrapped up in themselves is startling, even coming from a leisurely Circle of often hubristic mages.

This place is stifling. The only good thing about it is the gown she and Emmeline chose: it’s the same colour as the dark purple of her lips, shows off some of her back and shoulders. Just on the right side of scandalous. “Like you,” Emmeline laughed when they decided on it.

She looks over the shoulder of her dance partner as subtly as she can, trying to see the rest of the guests. Apparently the Inquisition is here. Trying to secure alliances in the wake of closing the Breach, or so they say. The prospect of seeing them is possibly the only interesting thing about all this pomp.

Her partner makes to hand her off to someone else, and she thanks him, realizing in embarrassment that she’s forgotten his name.

Her new partner takes her hand, bows slightly awkwardly. For a moment all she sees is neat blond hair. “I - hello,” he tries. When he straightens, his eyes are worried and looking round the room, not at her.

She offers him a smile, hoping it will loosen some of the tension in his shoulders and at least get him to  _look_ at her. “Don’t worry. This isn’t exactly my idea of fun either.”

The slightest smile, and now his eyes meet hers. “Oh?”

He’s big, broad, and as they truly begin to dance, she realizes that he’s wearing some sort of uniform. She sees the scar on his face, and there’s another one - difficult to spot, but there - under his jaw. A soldier, then?

“I’d much prefer a book. Perhaps a tavern to make things interesting.” She sighs, looks conspicuously up at the ceiling. “Lovely weather we’re having, Serah - ?”

He laughs, she’ll give him that, quiet as it is. So many things about him are quiet. For such a large man, he seems to be trying awfully hard to make himself smaller. “Rutherford,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation. “Cullen Rutherford.”

She can’t help raising an eyebrow at that. “Of the Inquisition?”

“Yes.” Perhaps seeing her surprise, he adds, “Does that bother you?”

For the general of one of Thedas’ largest armies, apparently fearsome on the battlefield, he’s almost... shy. “Oh, no,” she says, trying to recover the situation. “I just... Don’t you have armies to lead, demons to terrify, that sort of thing?”

“Not tonight. Unless there are rage demons hiding behind the drapery.” A half-laugh, and he gives her a proper smile now. It’s a good one.

“You never know,” she replies, pretending to seriously consider the suggestion.

He nods, conceding the point, also feigning seriousness. “True. Though honestly, I think I’d prefer the rage demons.” 

She can’t help but laugh at the weary exasperation in his tone. “Nobles,” she sighs. “I have to agree with you on that one.”

“Mm. I can tell.” He watches her face, seemingly amused.

She doesn’t look  _that_ miserable, surely? She  _faux_ -glares at him. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

His face settles into the kind of careful, stony seriousness that could probably  win games of Wicked Grace. “Yes,” he replies, completely sincerely.

She laughs then, somehow truly, oddly impressed. “Good. An excellent start.” She sighs again, looking round them. “Much as I hate to say it, I think I almost preferred the Circle.”

“In some ways, I agree.” It’s quiet, as though he didn’t think before speaking - and then he frowns at her. “You’re a mage?”

She tries to smile. “Yvaine Trevelyan, formerly of the Ostwick Circle.”

She notices his eyebrows raise at the family name, sees panic rise in his eyes. “I - Lady Trevelyan...”

She winces. Damn. She’d just got him to relax, too. “Please, don’t. I’ve been in a Circle since I was twelve. This is as bad for me as it probably is for you.”

He looks distinctly doubtful. “Then what should I call you?”

“Whatever you’d like to.” When he still hesitates, she says, “What’s the Inquisition doing at something like this, anyway? The Breach was closed, last time I checked.”

With the hint of a sigh, he replies, “Our work is far from finished. There are still smaller rifts to close. And the unrest it’s caused... There are refugees that must be aided, forces to recall and redistribute, alliances to secure - “ A definite sigh now, and he looks anywhere but her. “Forgive me. This isn’t the best conversation for a ball.”

She grins at him. “I’m finding it quite scintillating, actually.”

Echoing her earlier words, he raises a brow and asks, “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

“No.” She’s serious, and she shows it. “People forget what’s going on outside these walls. I heard that the Inquisition was accepting soldiers and volunteers.”

Surprise crosses his face. “Yes, we are. Is that an offer?”

She manages to regain her smile. “It might be.”

“Well, we have uses for good mages. And for noble allies.”

Grimacing, she says, “I’d rather be ‘a good mage’ than the latter.”

She finds that he’s smiling again. “Fair enough.”

The music halts, and he looks around. It’s time to pass her off to someone else, she realizes with no small amount of dismay. He bows again, the awkwardness of before gone.

Soon enough she’s back with pearl-clutching nobles, the strange moment on the dance floor little more than an odd memory, but by the end of the night, her decision is made.

 

## vi.

She’s leaning against the bar of a tavern with an ale and the third volume of  _Practical Healing,_ when she hears someone order next to her. She looks up, unable to help herself.

He sounds Fereldan. Not quite native to these parts, however. That on its own is interesting, but even more so is the fact that he’s ordered the worst ale they have.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” she says, hoping he won’t take offense. She can’t just leave him to his fate, after all.

Muller glares at her, but she’s enough of a regular that he knows she doesn’t mean it cruelly. Anyway, he’s had far worse customers than her - he’s a tough old bugger, and if he were truly displeased with her, she’d know it.

The newest customer seems amused, luckily. “And why’s that?”

“Just... trust me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I have my doubts. But what would you recommend, then?”

“I’d go for the Farthing.”

He considers it a moment, then turns back to Muller and changes his order. Then he looks at her again. “You don’t sound South Reach. Free Marches?”

“Ostwick,” she answers. “And your accent isn’t exactly local either.”

He scratches the back of his neck, loosening the collar of his shirt in the process. “I’d already left home when my family moved here. They’ve been telling me to visit, and with the Breach gone, I thought I might be able to at last.”

“I see. For me, it was travelling. Once the roads were safe, I wanted to see a bit of the world. What with it not ending, and so on.”

He laughs a little, paying Muller and taking his tankard. After an experimental mouthful, he remarks in surprise, “This isn’t half bad. I suppose I should thank you....?”

Noticing the pause, she decides to put him out of his misery. “Yvaine,” she says.

Smiling, he offers in return, “Cullen.”

**Author's Note:**

> First published on [my Tumblr](http://trulycertain.tumblr.com). Feel free to come and say hello!


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